


Polar

by Paranoixa



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cousin Incest, Developing Relationship, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Habit Transformations, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoixa/pseuds/Paranoixa
Summary: Erik dies, but a piece of him latches onto T'Challa, feeding on his flaws and insecurities like they're a delicacy. With his mind stretched to accommodate his new responsibilities, T'Challa struggles to overcome Erik's influence and, later, his own evils.. . .“It scares you just how much you feel.” He kicks a knee up, propping an arm up against it, and stares down at T’Challa with pity. “How much you hurt, love, hate. And now that you’ve got your Habit? Well.” He shakes his head, and bloody rain showers down from the trees. “It’s just another day in the life of Dr. Jekyll, isn’t it?You can lie to your family, you can lie to your people, you can even lie to yourself. But you and I both know that pacifistic, soft-soul thing ain’t nothing but an act. You’re angry, T’Challa.” Erik’s voice echoes in his ears before all remaining presence of him fades away. “And you don’t know what to do with it.”





	1. The Dead Don't Walk, But You Do

**Author's Note:**

> So the title?  
> T'Challa and Erik I kind of see as being polar opposites; to overly simplify it, T'Challa's light and soft, something you can hug, whereas Erik's dark and jagged, something that you can still hug but would probably cut you to shit if you tried it. But even with that, you can kind of see bits of them within the other, especially T'Challa. He was ready to abandon all his values to get revenge of Bucky. Erik is essentially a man facing trauma and injustice without values, and I think T'Challa could easily become that man if he hadn't found out the truth.  
> So T'Challa and Erik are different, but those differences kind of show how alike they could be given the circumstances.  
> Okay, that's enough of that. You've got the summary, and you've got the title. Ready for the story?

They lay his ashes on a Tuesday.

Shuri and Ramonda stand behind him, heads bowed, eyes closed, hands folded. The sun's just begun to rise, casting a warm blanket of yellow over the cave extending from Mount Bashenga; it's what N'Jadaka would have wanted, T'Challa thinks as he lowers to his knees; he spreads the ashes in slow swoops, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The ground from where they sat three days prior is still red with N'Jadaka's blood. Like wine; a very bitter, very noxious wine.

"The name's 'Erik', cuz."

T'Challa's hand pauses in its movement, and a scorching presence settles over his spine; he winces, gasps, and looks up from the ground. Erik's standing before him, his body blacking out the sun; he's got a smile that's about as jovial as it's ever been. The clothes he's wearing, a black tee and a pair of grey jeans, are not the clothes he wore when he left this world. But the fatal wound he sustained, the one T'Challa gave him, is still there. A steady stream of blood drips from Erik's lips, and his pants leg is wet with red.

He's not smiling anymore.

"T'Challa?" A hand drops onto his shoulder, and T'Challa flinches. He turns around and finds Shuri standing beside him, her ruby red earrings glinting from the rays of the early morning sun. She brushes several braids over her ear and takes his chin in her hands. "Are you all right", she asks, and T'Challa's shoulders sag. His eyes fall shut, and, without another word, his arms move to envelop her in a hug. "Brother?"

A soft "shh!" emits from behind him. Moments later, his mother's arms wrap around he and his sister; T'Challa squeezes his eyelids firmly against his eyes and reaches an arm around Ramonda. Behind him, the sun continues to climb further along the stretch of blue sky; the fauna have begun to awaken and, beneath the Mountain, so has the country.

There are things to do today. But for now, there is time only for grief and consolation.

A finger curls around his ear before trailing down his neck. Another body presses against his back, accompanied by a deep, wry chuckle. "Funny", Erik admonishes. "With all the crying and hand wringing, you'd have thought someone important had died."

. . .

He slept in his bed.

The onslaught on T'Challa's nostrils upon entering his room alerts him to the fact before the ruffled bed sheets do. The air's rich with musk and fire and anger. His scent is always overwhelming to T'Challa's new nose; it's dizzying, disarraying, it's got his head swimming. It's silly that such a thing could render him so troubled.

It makes sense, though; sleeping in his quarters, overpowering and replacing T'Challa's scent with his own. It was a personal accomplishment, one that only someone with a Habit could understand.

Even in death, Erik is proving to be a massive pain in the ass.

"Right", Erik greets as he exits T'Challa's bathroom; his mouth is foamy with toothpaste, and his hair is white with suds. Swiping a glass of water off the nearby dresser, he removes the toothbrush from his move and twirls it through the air. "I got my sweat all over your shit as part of my plan to kill the world's monarchs, take over the world, and ban caffeine consumption." He spits into the glass, then resumes his brushing. "I ain't a sick fuck like you, T. Suit and trippy flower or not, you're not gonna catch me pissing on the furniture."

T'Challa's right eye twitches. "You are not real", he murmurs as he pulls his shirt over his head. Conscious of Erik's roaming eyes, he tosses it aside and quickly moves to his dresser to retrieve another. Erik sighs and hops onto the dresser, his feet dangling over the drawer T'Challa had been reaching for. "You're just a figment of my imagination", he continues as he pushes him off the dresser. "A coping mechanism to help me deal with your passing."  
"And yet you're talking to me. Should you be seeing someone?" When T'Challa doesn't answer, his eyes trained on the drawer as he rummages through its contents, he narrows his eyes and sits back against the wall. "And 'passing'?" He kicks one leg over the other and draws closer to T'Challa. "Is that what the kids are calling 'murder' these days?"

"I have a meeting with the Tribal Council", T'Challa states as he snatches a teal shirt with ruffles from the drawer; he doesn't bother folding and neatly placing the shirts back in order. Just slams the drawer shut and walks to the bathroom. "I don't have time for this."

With that, he closes the door behind him, pressing his back against the olive wood. He sighs, wipes a hand over his face, and looks to the right of him. Upon seeing Erik's lax figure sitting on the marble sink, T'Challa squeaks and takes a step backward, knocking his head into the door. He hisses, fangs threatening to pierce his lips, and glares up at Erik.  
"I know you'd like to fling my ashes around my death site, pretty morbid by the way, and just move on with your life." He leaps from the countertop and lands before T'Challa, shaking his head in amusement. "But the universe doesn't work like that, bitch." He presses a finger into T'Challa's chest and flashes his own fangs. "I am dead. And you may have stopped me from helping the brothers and sisters that needed my help. But I'm still here. And you, my dear cousin, I'm gonna help you in every way imaginable."

T'Challa's scowl deepens; a growl rumbles in his chest, and his irises wash over to purple. "You are not here", he says, gesturing to the gushing wound lining Erik's stomach. "You're not even alive."

"Fair enough. But come on. What's that your daddy was always saying?" He leans forward and whispers into T'Challa's ear, "'Death is never the end'." Before T'Challa can snatch hold of his neck, Erik leans back once more and hops back onto the sink. His eyes flick to the claws creeping from T'Challa's fingertips; he beams. "Have fun at your meeting, cuz. I'm sure everyone's just dying to see their compassionate, cordial king."

And he's gone.

T'Challa rises from the floor and walks over to the sink. His hands are shaking, and his claws and fangs aren't retreating; taking care to ignore the spot where Erik'd been sitting, he reaches for the tube of toothpaste sitting beside the faucet handles.

The tube, he's happy to find, has yet to be used.


	2. Kingly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a king's a tough job when you're harboring the undead.

His people are not happy.

Erik was foreign, and, to further enrich the flame, he was angry and warbound. Many don't care for the source of the anger, of his identity, of his drive for a war to end wars; they only saw the scars on his chest and the fire within his hands that would set the world aflame; they see a man that sought to steal and to destroy, and they do not understand why the king would wish to honor him.

Even his family, as understanding as they are, are puzzled when T'Challa announces a mourning period of three days. It is not required, and T'Challa himself will be too busy with affairs to make use of the period. But it's there nonetheless, and, when night falls, T'Challa takes to Warrior Falls with a bare chest and a head full of white noise.

"Explain somethin' to me", Erik questions several feet from where T'Challa sits cross-legged; the waterfalls surrounding them are a roaring orchestra of plopping, trickling, and splashing. Erik wades his through the water until all but his chin is submerged. He stares at T'Challa, whose eyes are protected by the thin skin of his lids, and pulls his lips back into a sneer. "How can you mourn someone you never even knew? Or better yet, someone you killed?"  
"Last I checked, mourning has no restrictions", T'Challa retorts, his hands folded in his lap. His legs ache from having been seated for so long, but he can't move; it's as if he's been paralyzed by his inner turmoil, immobilized as he awaits a sort of cosmic relief from the guilt that's gnawing away at his conscience.

"You know, it's actually kind of funny." Erik materializes beside him, dripping water and blood into T'Challa's hair. "Your daddy dies, you take off to kill the guy who killed him. Only, oops, wrong dude. So you take the dude home, make him your pet, beat off to him when you think no one's looking-"  
T'Challa grits his teeth. "He is not a pet, and I've never-"  
"Ah, ah, ah." Erik chuckles and presses a finger to T'Challa's lips. "I wasn't finished." T'Challa says nothing, just breathes louder, so Erik gets louder. He presses his back to T'Challa's and leans until T'Challa's face is inches away from the water. "Now where was I? Oh, right. So you've found your pet; you're too much of a pussy to make a move, but you got him."  
"Is this going somewhere?"

"And you're thinking that maybe life'll be normal again, be easy again. 'Til that mean, old cousin of yours, starring yours truly, showed up and made a mess of things again."

T'Challa growls, shoves him off his back, and swims to where the crashing falls meet calming waters; behind the waterfall, there sits a cave, and T'Challa seeks refuge here. But, of course, Erik merely follows him out, recalling their final battle with a grisly glee.

"Stabbety, stab, stab, stab", he sings, drawing circles around where his stomach is peeled and bleeding; there's pus coming from the wound, and it clings to his finger like a festering goo. He smiles and points it at T'Challa. "You know, mortal wounds are a bitch. But, man, I gotta tell you. Most guys are lucky. They get hit, they suffer for a few minutes, maybe some hours if they're not as lucky. But they're dead in a day, tops. Me." Erik poofs in front of T'Challa, walking backwards as he continues forward. "I been living with this shit for about a week now. And it sucks."  
T'Challa pauses. His toes dig into the sand; his claws creep out, and his hands tremble at his sides. He forces himself to breathe, and he looks Erik square in the eye. Erik beams like a child on Christmas. The color in his cheeks is missing, and the whites in his eyes are a sickly grey. He looks happy.

He shouldn't look like anything.

"You brought this on yourself", T'Challa states, intent to ignore the wobbly syllables afflicting his words. "This did not have to happen. I offered you peace, and I would have been willing to offer you a home. I would have listened and attempted to help suffering communities. But we never got that far because of you. It is not my fault that you are gone!"

T'Challa blinks, and Erik's gone. He recoils, turning to scrutinize the cave with a panicked pulse. His fingers coming up to press into his neck, he gulps, closes his eyes, and rests his back against a wall. Said wall is wet and fluffy with moss. On any other day, he might have flinched and immediately recoiled. But on this day, he seeks comfort in the vegetation's presence; it's a comforting presence against his clammy skin. He finds himself pushing further into it, eager to escape the thick, hot air of the cave.

As he's thinking this, a hot hand falls upon his shoulder. He doesn't bother pushing it away.

Lips creep close to his ear. "You know", Erik muses, his voice bouncing from various corners of the room. "The Blame Game always was a favorite of mine. And I'll tell you what." With each spoken word, his voice grows fainter and fainter. But to T'Challa, the words couldn't be louder. "In all my years, I've never once lost."

. . .

The Dora are being strange.

To be fair, though, they've always been a little strange, and their behavior isn't so much weird as it is different; they're tiptoing around him, watching him with wary, knowing eyes. It's their job to be perceptive, his very life depends on it, but it's unnerving nonetheless. Before, they'd always been open, at ease, and cordial. As it stands, they've resumed that nature they possessed when he was a child, fond but distant. And the way they look at him. Why do they look at him in that way, as if they're waiting for him to unfurl at the seams?

"Spoiler alert: they think you're nuts", Erik pipes up beside him. They're in T'Challa's study, sitting in curt silence as T'Challa attempts to focus on the letter in his hands. It's a vain attempt, and, in all honesty, he hasn't taken in a single word since Erik appeared. But it gives him something to focus on, and he's in dire need of focus, of direction, of something stable and certain.

"And why would they think that", T'Challa questions, dragging a finger along the top of the paper; his finger slices upon impact, but he can't find it himself to do more than smear the ensuing droplet of blood against the blank side.

"I'm just hazarding a guess here", he says with a nod to the Dora at the front of the study. "But it could be because you're talking to yourself."

He presses his fingers into his temple. From his spot on his loveseat, Erik smirks and cocks his head to the side. "Oh. Am I upsetting the precious, little kitty?"  
"I'd gladly appreciate it if you refrained from calling me that."

"And I'd gladly appreciate it if you removed that stick from up your ass."

T'Challa inhales, forcing the rising Panther in his chest to settle. He rubs a hand up and down his neck and wills himself to focus on the blurry words evading him. It's an invitation from Steve, wishing for him to join their teammates at a Christmas mixer.

It is the Christmas season, isn't it?

"Wow, nothing gets past you, huh?" Erik materializes behind his chair, and T'Challa jumps, knocking over his glass of water. The Dora turn around, tightening their grip on their spears, and glance around the room. With a calming hand from T'Challa, they relax and turn back to their post.

They're still watching him.

T'Challa inhales.

"Everyone's gonna be there", Erik says, snatching the paper from his hands. He trails a finger along its length, leaving splotches of blood and peeling, grey skin in its wake. "I mean, I'm assuming. Not sure about that Stark guy; he and Stars still kicking up dust, or they finally get around to picking out curtains?"  
"Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers", T'Challa states as he watches the soiled paper with troubled eyes. "Are talking to one another again. I'm not sure if they're together, but Stark has accepted and will be hosting the mixer in his home in New York. From what Ms. Romanoff has told me, they have met several times for lunch; Rogers is supposed to be assisting him with preparing for the mixer."

"Hm." Placing the paper back on the desk, Erik tosses one leg over the other and nods. "They're fucking each other."  
"Definitely." T'Challa smiles, his first one in days. He pulls the letter back across the desk and smooths it out. The stains won't disappear, but there's no worry for wrinkles. He slips the letter into one of his drawers and turns to look out the window. Whereas the Christmas season is setting upon the West, Wakanda has not yet begun its celebrations. Nevertheless, it's easy to see touch of the festive season. There are people dressed in white, and the shops are selling materials for shammas and fringes.

It's strange that such a lively holiday could come so close without his knowing. Even in recent years, when times have been hectic and somewhat chaotic, he's never forgotten Christmas.

"Hm." Erik tiptoes his fingers down the back of T'Challa's neck and smirks. "What's got you so forgetful, cuz?"  
He swats his hand away and scowls. "Nothing", he murmurs to himself. "I just have a lot of thoughts on my mind."

Erik wiggles his eyebrows. "Would Mr. Barnes", he asks in a snotty voice. "Be amongst those thoughts?"

T'Challa glares and rises to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in the process. The Dora turn around once more, but T'Challa dismisses them with a curt, "I'm fine". Leaving without further word, he then pushes open the doors of his study and prepares to walk to his room. Before he can, though, he's taken aback by the sight of James standing on the other side of the door, his hand raised as if to knock. T'Challa takes a step back, and James does the same.

Erik stands at T'Challa's side, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"James", T'Challa breathes. He coughs into his fist, then tries again. "James. I, um, what are you-what are you doing here?"  
"Smooth."  
"I got this letter from Steve", James says through a yawn. He rubs his knuckle into his eye, then sleepily blinks up at T'Challa. T'Challa suppresses a smile. "Something about a Christmas party", James continues, and he passes the note to T'Challa.

T'Challa accepts it gingerly, biting his lip as their fingers briefly make contact. "Yes, I received one as well."  
"You know." Erik leans on his shoulder and shakes his head in disapproval. "You're never gonna get in his pants if you keep acting like you've got a stick up your ass."

"Right. Well." James scratches the scruff underneath his chin and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "I mean, are you going?" When all he gets is a pair of raised eyebrows, he lets loose a breath of a laugh and looks to the floor. "I know you and Steve ain't exactly get off on the right foot. And you're kinda new, so I wasn't sure if you was really in with the others and…"  
T'Challa blinks. He opens his mouth to say something, then, deciding against it, closes it. When he's finally found the words, it seems minutes have passed. James has begun to squirm underneath the prolonged silence, and T'Challa finds him flustered as he stutters out, "Are you-are you worried about Tony?"  
James looks away and crosses his arms over his chest. His hair's fallen in his eyes, and his shoulders are drawn in. "That obvious, huh?"

"So transparent it's see-through", Erik tuts; he slides down to the floor, pressing his back against T'Challa's leg. T'Challa pushes him away, and James pretends not to notice.

"He and Steve have made amends", T'Challa eventually says. "I think you'll be safe."  
"Yeah but it ain't safety I'm worried about."

T'Challa stares, not understanding for a moment, before it dawns upon him. Safety likely hasn't been of this man's concern in decades. And, given his abilities, not so much in recent years either. Now that he's regained control of his mind, though, there's room for thought beyond strategy and efficiency. There's room for worry, for desire ("nasty little kitty"), for remorse, and, apparently, insecurity.

"Steve has relayed your recovery to the rest of the team", T'Challa says, and he's speaking too fast. "Now that they're certain you're you again, I'm sure they'd be welcome to having you around."  
James scoffs. He still won't look at him. "Right. I'm sure they'd love to have a homicidal maniac at their little bubble party."  
T'Challa falters. "They have their Hulk." James remains silent. "And the rest of them aren't of an entirely innocent background."  
"Hm." Erik digs his nails into his palm, laughing as his flesh peels away. He flicks it onto T'Challa's shirt before turning back to his feverish skin. "Sound like anybody else we know?"

"I'm sure they'd like to get to know you", T'Challa continues. His face is warm. "You're a good man. This could be your chance to show them that."

There's a rustling in the air. Beyond the windows a few meters down from them, the Kenya-cedar trees are slamming against the side of the Palace, their leaves whooshing like sails in a raging storm. It's comforting, a well-appreciated distraction from the frequent pauses that impregnate their conversation and the parasite clinging to his leg.

This pause is shorter than the last. The wind drowns out as James looks up and stares at him with barely concealed hope in his eyes. "I'm not really good with people", James says. "Steve says old me was, but, uh, that's not me anymore. I get around groups, and I just clam up. Can you imagine what I'd be like around some people I tried to killed?"

T'Challa smiles. "I'm around you." Slipping his hands into his pockets, he takes in the wide set of James's eyes and gulps. "I'm new to the group myself", he says. "I'm not too keen on going either, but maybe we could go together."

James smiles, and that last bit of sleepiness in his eyes fades away. "You'd really be okay with that?"

"Yeah. I, uh, well, we're friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah, yeah, right." James ducks his head and grips his forearm. When he looks back up, it's to brush his air out of his face and take a step back. "Friends", he repeats, like it's an inconceivable concept. He smiles to himself. "Well, I should get going. You've probably got a lot of kingly stuff to do."  
"Kingly. Uh, yeah." T'Challa pulls his arms behind his back and takes a step back as well. "That I do. And I'm sure you have your own things to do. Like your goats and-and things."  
"Exactly", James laughs awkwardly and continues stepping away. "I should be getting back to them. They don't like it when I'm gone too long so. Yeah, well, bye."

"Bye, James." T'Challa turns around and quickly turns at the nearest corner. Leaning against a statue of Bast, he places his hands on either side of his head and groans. Erik pops up beside him and shakes his head.

"Well", he says, folding his arms over his chest. "That was absolutely horrendous. You know, I've seen your sister flirting with a cactus before, and she had better game than that."

T'Challa snarls and slices a clawed hand through the air. But that's all the hand meets, air, because Erik has gone and left T'Challa alone.

He gulps, blinks, and staggers off of the statue. Jagged pieces of breath expel from his chest like a wounded engine, and dark, teasing spots flicker across his field of vision. Brushing a trembling hand over his face, T'Challa huffs and leaves for a walk around the Palace.

Somehow, it's not nearly as comforting as it should be.


	3. Muddling Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nakia drops in for a visit.

Time is moving, moving quickly, and it can't be wasted on self-reflection. There are things to be done, affairs to be taken of, meetings to be had, and the little gnat buzzing about his skull will just have to wait for later.

T'Challa knows this is a flawed way of thinking and that if any of his confidants could hear him, they'd be quick to insist he rest while the Council assumes his duties. He knows that this will likely cause him more harm than good in the long run, but what else is there to do? The country's still recovering from the loss of their former king and roiling from Erik's reveal; T'Challa's already taken his mourning periods. He can't afford anymore time off.

He's running on two hours of sleep, six cups of coffee, and an electroshock band that Shuri would kill him over if she knew he was using it to stay awake. It's not the most conventional nor the healthiest method, but it gets the job done. And the job needs to be done.

Wakanda's been out for five weeks, but for all the attention it's getting, you'd've thought it'd been ringing the UN's bell for as long as the rest of the world. Because the world is amazed, and the world is seeking answers, of course, but the world is also outraged. All those resources, all that tech, all those intelligent people, and no one's stepped forward to assist the world while it shits itself. It's a travesty, a disgrace, for all that potential to be placed in the hands of people who obviously have no idea how to use it.

"It's astonishing, really", T'Challa murmurs as he stares at the TV embedded in the wall. "I don't think I've ever seen another person that convinced of their own bullshit."

Nakia rolls her eyes, kicks her feet up onto the couch, and snatches the remote off the coffee table before them. "You really don't watch enough TV."  
"Yes. And I'm glad I don't." He scrunches up his face and places his head in the space where her neck meets her shoulder. "Please turn to something less nauseating."

With a quick dance of her fingers, Nakia's turned the channel to Nat Geo Wild. For once, the big cats aren't on; today, it's polar bears, and some little cub's fallen into a divot in the snow. T'Challa purrs and snuggles closer to Nakia.

On the couch beside them, Erik sits, reeking of death and false hubris as he waits for T'Challa to acknowledge him.

Nakia combs her fingers through his hair and hums; her fingers brush over his forehead, faltering when they sense the heat emanating from there. Her features contort with worry, and she taps his chin until he looks up at her. When he does, she finds red, unfocused eyes staring back at her.

"How are you feeling", she asks. "I know I've been gone for a while and-"  
"Nakia. It's fine." T'Challa wills a smile to his face, sits up, and pulls her close to him. There's a protective rumbling in his chest, and it's growing because Erik's materialized himself to the opposite end of the couch. T'Challa pulls Nakia closer and tucks his head beneath her neck. "It's fine."  
"You've barely said a word all day." She flicks her eyes to his untouched plate of beans, cabbage, and honey bread. "You haven't eaten."  
"I'm not hungry", he protests with a half-hearted shrug.

"This is your favorite dish."  
"I hate cabbage, and you know what beans do to my stomach."  
Nakia chuckles, biting playfully at his ear, and pulls herself from his embrace. She raises her eyebrows, then says, "You're just bitter because I won't give you the recipe. And you didn't have any problem eating them last time. Til after of course."

T'Challa hums and leans against the back of their couch. He watches her, content and relaxed for the first time in what feels like forever. "You always did know me best." He reaches out and takes hold of her wrists, ignoring Erik as he grips his shoulders with pus-filled fingers.

"You're on edge", Nakia notes, and she drags her fingers over the taut-muscles in his hands.

"I'm fine." Erik digs deeper, and T'Challa's skin peels.

"You're not." She frowns; she wraps her hands around his and watches him. "You're hurt, and you're tired."  
"I'm fine", T'Challa insists. "I just have to get through these next few weeks, and everything will be all right. This mess with the UN and everyone will die out, and the kingdom will return to normal. We just have to be patient."

"Patient?" Erik disappears, then reappears behind Nakia, staring at T'Challa with dismay. He scoffs, waves a hand through the air, then plops back onto his couch, kicking his feet up on the armrest. "Right", he drawls. "Because people are just gonna forget the fact that you abandoned them; they're just gonna magically not care that you kept your precious little metals and your highly esteemed doctors to yourself when they needed it most. But." He waves his hand again, steals T'Challa's drink from the table, and takes a sip. When the glass comes away, his flakey lips are red and alive with wine. He drags his tongue over the skin and winks. "By all means, waiting's okay with me. After all. I've got all the time in the world."

"-gonna get yourself killed one of these days, always putting yourself last." Nakia opens her mouth to continue, then, following T'Challa's line of sight, turns to Erik. When she sees nothing, she turns back to him and waves a hand in his face. "What are you doing?"  
T'Challa rubs his fingers against his eyes and shakes his head. "Nothing, nothing. I just...sorry. My head's in another place."  
She continues to stare, her gaze unrelenting. "You aren't sleeping either, are you?" When all he does is remain quiet, his gaze fixated on his fingernails, Nakia inhales and turns to face the TV. The program's flicked to commercial, advertising some medication or another that arguably does more damage than it does good. Her eyes narrowed, she snatches hold of the remote once more and turns the TV off. T'Challa remains as he is.

"I just need to get through this", he murmurs tiredly. "Living it's the worst, but if I can bear it, then I'll be fine."  
"So you're just gonna suffer", she questions, and her eyes are furious. It's endearing, her passion, just as it's always been. Even if what they are has changed, that burning need to protect and care for him is still there. T'Challa smiles and squeezes her in his arms, comforted by the vanilla scent of her shampoo. Nakia pulls a face but relents, settling into his warm embrace. But she's still ignited, and when she looks up at him, her eyes could turn the kingdom to a charred rubble.

T'Challa reaches out; two fingers rest beneath her chin, and another, his thumb, drags against her cheek. "I'll be okay", he tells her with a smile. "I always am."

She doesn't look at all convinced. But before she can say more, T'Challa's taken the remote from her hands and turned the TV back on. The polar bears are gone, replaced with some bitter lizards in the Sahara. Nakia sighs and drops her head against his chest. T'Challa closes his eyes and stares into the TV, ignoring the clammy presence settling over his skin.


	4. Ghosts of Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa's gotten used to Erik being a sanctimonious ass, but, today, he gets just a bit more personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, hello, everyone! Hope everyone's Thanksgiving (or last weekend) was wonderful, and I hope you're enjoying this snowy/rainy weather (or whatever it is you're having). Either way, hope you had some funtimes cause I'm here, as usual, to suffocate you with angst and melodrama *squiggle arms*.  
> Ugh, I'm a dork. Anyway, back at it with the newest chapter. Hope you guys like it.

Sometimes, Erik'll disappear for days, and all that's left for T'Challa is a qualming nation and a world that wants him as an ally as much as they want him dethroned. With the latter two posing an actual threat, it speaks wonders that Erik can still have this effect on him.

He isn't even here and he's still making a mess of things.

Three days; it's been three days since he's last seen Erik's ghost. He should be happy. With him gone, T'Challa should be able to focus on things that are actually real, should be able to get some sleep. But he can't. Erik's left before, several times these past few weeks, and each time, he returns more malevolent, more hell-bent on shoving acidic truths down his throat. Three days marks the longest he's ever been gone, and it's got T'Challa wound tighter than a snake around its newfound prey. So when Erik eventually does return, T'Challa can't say if he's relieved or petrified.

"I'm just saying", he notes as T'Challa crawls underneath the scaling spray of the shower. "You act like me and your little kitten were your first 'mistakes' but come on." Erik pulls back the curtain, and T'Challa grits his teeth, clenches his eyes shut as he drags his washcloth over his chest until the skin's rubbed raw. "Do you remember Bonani?"  
"Shut up, Erik." T'Challa reaches for the knobs jutting from the tiled walls; the temperature rises, and the cleansing steam enveloping the room grows thicker. He tilts his head back, letting the biting streams of water wash the suds off his body.

"Scruffy little kid, don't get what you saw in him. But Sipho saw it, too. And oh, boy." Erik takes a seat on the edge of the tub and clucks his tongue, staring up at him with famished eyes. "Pretty boy T'Challa didn't like that, did he?"  
"You don't know what you're talking about." T'Challa's eyes snap open to glare at Erik. His nails extend into claws, and the color within his irises take on a purple hue. Erik beams. "That was long ago. You can't have known that, I barely remember that."  
"Okay, even if that was true, it doesn't matter." Erik chuckles and shakes his head. "Real Me had a lifelong vendetta against you; there's no telling what delicious, saucy secrets of yours he got his hands on. Now as I was saying-"  
T'Challa growls, brushes past the curtain, and crawls out of the tub. Taking half a moment to snatch an auburn towel out of the linen closet, he then barges out of the bathroom and into his sleeping chambers, an eager Erik in tow.

"AS I WAS SAYING", Erik continues, watching with gleeful eyes as T'Challa frantically sprawls into some jogging pants and a t-shirt. "How do you think Bonani felt, watching his bestest friend beat his other bestest friend to a bloody pulp? You think he's still in therapy?"

"Please", T'Challa whimpers. "Just leave me alone." Once dressed, he rushes to his window and leaps onto the branch of a nearby cape fig. As he's scaling, Erik's head pops out between the leaves.

"Of course, he's still in therapy", Erik cackles, stealing T'Challa's grip of his branch. T'Challa falls, colliding with several other branches, before the tree releases him from its grip and allows him to slam into the earth. He groans, wraps an arm around his middle, and presses his fingers into what'll surely develop into a nasty bruise. Not a moment later, Erik's appeared in front of him. Even with the mid-morning sun casting heavenly rays upon him, he's far from a welcoming sight; not while he occupies a decaying, festering shell of a body.

"Kiddies don't just recover from that kind of trauma", Erik muses, cocking his head to the side. He flashes him a smile and hums a brief, discordant melody. "And trust me. I would know."

"Erik." His voice cracks, and he looks away, willing himself to be strong enough to keep the tears at bay.

"But this ain't about me." Erik takes a seat beside T'Challa and chuckles. "'Course it never is but I ain't bitter." He reaches out with a faux air of concern and places a hand on T'Challa's shoulder. His eyes; they aren't his own. They belong to someone else, someone who hasn't been gone too long but was taken too soon. Within those eyes, this person watches T'Challa, their expression bare and devoid of emotion. What must they see?

"Bonani", Erik says, ripping him from his thoughts. "You still check on him. Not often but you do, I'll give you that. His doctor, per a hefty 'tip' every now and again, still doesn't think poor Bonani's ready to reenter society. Daddy's gone now, though, so I'd love to see how you'd handle that."  
"I was a child", T'Challa seethes. He knocks Erik's hand away. He stands, only to double over and wince. When he's found the strength to look up, his canines have dropped, and his voice has succumbed to a growl. "I was a petty, jealous child. I couldn't control my emotions, let alone the growing Panther within me."  
"Blah, blah, blah." Erik rolls his eyes and levels T'Challa with a knowing look. "Our whole family's got traces of that Herb in our blood, and yet you're the only one that's struggled to keep it in line."  
"Who are you to lecture me on not being in control?" He bares his teeth and stalks toward Erik, drawing up to his full height as Erik looks on with pride. T'Challa's hand surges and clapses around his throat. His claws are out again. They look good there. He looks up from his neck to meet Erik's eyes and spits out, "You built your life on getting revenge on me because you couldn't let go of your father's death."  
"Murder, T, let's not forget that little detail. And let's get something straight." Erik's eyes dip to T'Challa's necklace. He smirks, smug and assured, then reaches out to tug a vibranium tooth between his fingers. "I might have devoted my entire life to destroying you and everything that you stand for", he states with a casual air. He drags a nail against the metal, his lips pulling back into a smile full of black gums and wobbly teeth. "But I was, at any and every moment, in control. I knew what I wanted, and I went after it; nothing else mattered, so there were never any distractions, nothing to deviate me from my goal. Everything that I cared about and wanted to be died in that shit apartment, so there was never any strive to be more than what I was." The smile falls, and Erik turns the metal tooth around to press it into T'Challa's skin. T'Challa does little more than flinch. "And that", Erik says, pressing close. "You pathetic, withering soul, is control. You, on the other hand." With a blink, Erik's disappeared and materialized back into the tree.

T'Challa turns around, his fingers creeping toward his necklace, only to drop to his side as his face grows warm.

Erik watches with mere delight, pressing his back into the sturdy base of the tree. "You just do whatever. All sweet and precious and 'could never hurt a fly'...until someone pisses you off. Admit it." Erik laughs, blood droplets flying from his mouth. "It scares you just how much you feel." He kicks a knee up, propping an arm up against it, and stares down at T'Challa with pity. "How much you hurt, love, hate. And now that you've got your Habit? Well." He shakes his head, and bloody rain showers down from the trees. "It's just another day in the life of Dr. Jekyll, isn't it?"

"I am not a monster", T'Challa whispers. Before Erik can get another word in, he's turned around and leaped onto the walls of the Palace. As he's scaling the wall, Erik appears beside him, his face grey and expressionless. T'Challa gulps, digs his claws into the stone of the wall, and closes his eyes. "Leave me alone."

"Hm." The ever-intensifying heat emanating from Erik recedes, but the tautness in T'Challa's muscles remain. "You can lie to your family, you can lie to your people, you can even lie to yourself. But you and I both know that pacifistic, soft-soul thing ain't nothing but an act. You're angry, T'Challa." Erik's voice echoes in his ears before all remaining presence of him fades away. "And you don't know what to do with it."

. . .

He returns by midnight, when T'Challa's curled into a tight ball of nerves and sweaty bed sheets. An arm as hot as a burning coal coils around his middle, and T'Challa can't find it in himself to push it away.

It's the best sleep he's had in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUUUUUUYYYYYSSSS. Okay, so bit of a personal note but school's wrapping up in about two weeks, which means this bitch is gonna have even more free time on their hands than usual. If procrastination doesn't rear their ugly head, this should be a good thing because I have a lot of side projects going on right now.  
> If you're interested in this story, that's good for you because the gap between this fic and the next (still deciding what that'll be but I'm thinking a Christmas fluff piece) will be significantly shorter than my usual. Polar's gonna stay on a weekly update schedule mainly because I need time to work on those side projects, and keeping the schedule so short helps me stay on top of things.  
> This is getting rambly ugh. Point is, expect nothing different from Polar, expect more fics for 2019 (if the writing keeps coming to me, fingers crossed), and expect the unexpected I guess. Sorry, I wanted to write that in threes, but I didn't have a three.  
> Anyway, so that's that. Thank you guys for reading; everyday, I check my email and see kudos or comments or bookmarks or whatevers, and it really just makes my heart flutter. You guys are the best.


	5. How It All Falls Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa falls behind on some things, prompting an eye-opening conversation with one of the Elders.

"Brother? Who are you talking to?"  
Shuri's standing beside him, clutching her cell phone to her chest and wearing the expression of someone who's seen something she understands but wishes she didn't; something disturbing, unnerving, disconcerting.

"Spoiler alert", Erik whispers, taking a sip of his tea. "That's you."

"Um." T'Challa shakes his head and laughs breathlessly. "Nakia."  
Shuri raises an eyebrow. "You're not wearing an earpiece. Or your beads."  
"Then that explains why she hasn't said anything back." Shuri keeps looking at him, so he rises from his seat, walks toward the refrigerator, and tosses open the door. He can't stomach the thought of actually eating anything, but Shuri's suspicious enough on a normal day, and he can't afford anymore interventions. Settling on a half-eaten bowl of seafood chowder, T'Challa leans against one of the kitchen's islands and fishes a spoon out of the sink. Shuri's nose turns up at this, and he rolls his eyes, shovelling the chilled soup into his mouth. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Aside from you using the soap I got you", she grumbles, slipping her phone back into her pocket. "Mother wants to know if you still plan on attending the meeting with the Tribes." She hops onto her own island, kicking her feet back and forward, and watches him with probing eyes. "She says you were supposed to have announced your attendance a week ago."  
"You can tell mother that I will be attending and that I'm sorry to have kept her waiting. I've been-" Erik tilts his cup of tea onto his feet, transfixed as the rotting skin melts away. "Busy as of late. The meeting's in a few days. By then, matters will be settled; we can talk then." He makes to walk past her, only for Shuri to stick out a hand and push him back.

"You", Shuri says pointedly. "Can tell mother yourself. And I suggest you do it quickly." T'Challa gives her a blank expression, so she huffs, leans closer, and thumps him on the head. "The meeting's now, ya moron."  
T'Challa tightens his grip on his bowl and scrunches up his face. "Bast", he murmurs.

"Yeah, well. If you're going to go, you should know Lumka of the Mining Tribe is still there. And she's not happy."  
"Is she ever?"

"Don't be an ass." She rolls her eyes, taking his chowder from him, and jerks her head to the door. "Go on. The longer you wait, the worse it'll be."  
T'Challa brushes a thumb against his severely overgrown stubble and sighs. Erik's standing beside him, practically bouncing with unhampered excitement. "Can't imagine this getting any worse."  
"What?"  
"Nothing, just…" He points at his bowl, then turns for the door. "Just don't touch my chowder."  
"Oh, my." Shuri lifts the jam-covered spoon from the bowl and tosses it back into the sink. "How will I restrain myself?"

The halls are empty, as per usual. It's strange, come to think of it, that such a big castle should always be so empty, but that was probably the point. Keep the person in interest in a big place and they, themselves, will probably feel big. He's certain there's a more in-depth psychology behind it all, a reason for why his home has to, at times, feel so lonesome, but all T'Challa can think of now is these big, open halls, and how much he'd rather get lost in them than attend this meeting.

"Is somebody in trouble", Erik trills as they make their descent into the lower levels of the Palace. "What happens to a king if they're in trouble? Do they get the spray bottle?"  
T'Challa flicks his eyes to him and scowls, rounding a corner and carrying on down the carpeted halls. "You do know I'm not an actual cat, don't you?"

He reaches out and yanks on T'Challa's tail, snickering when a yelp escapes him. T'Challa snatches it back, baring his fangs as he quickens his pace.

"Could have had me fooled", Erik says. "Speaking of which, aren't you just thrilled that I didn't have this-", he gestures to T'Challa, "-shitshow you've got going on during our fight; I don't know about you, sourpuss, but I think I might've had a fair shot if I'd been hit with that stick."

"We are not discussing this", T'Challa snarls; they've come to a tagua nut-laced door. On the other end sits his mother and Lumka, discussing plans for the next meeting. Before the door opens, T'Challa pushes Erik to the side and adjusts his clothes, standing with his hands folded as it opens and reveals the two women inside.

"Ah", Lumka greets insipidly. "Hello, my king."  
T'Challa nods. "Elder Lumka. It's a pleasure to see you."

"Is it now? I'd have thought you had more pressing matters to attend to."  
Ramonda grabs her by the forearm and gives her a look. "Lumka." She then turns to T'Challa, watching him as she had in his youth when he'd act out. Warmth crawls along his neck, and he gulps, refraining from shuffling his feet.

"Mother. Lumka. I apologize for my...tardiness. The meeting just slipped my mind and-"  
"Funny." Lumka folds her arms over her chest, looks him over, and shakes her head. "The things that we give our attention versus the things that we don't. They could speak wonders."

Erik darts his eyes between the two. "I'm sensing tension, and I am here for that."

"Is something the matter", T'Challa asks, drawing back his shoulders. He's picked up on her anger, same as he always has. But it's different this time; more direct, jagged.

"I just can't understand", Lumka begins; her voice is light, kind and cheerful in the way it always is when one's standing before someone they plan to stab and leave for dead. "How you can find the time to celebrate the life of that monster and convene with those Americans when you can't even honor the life of your own people."  
"Lumka, I think it's time you go."  
"No, mother." T'Challa steps closer to Lumka. His skin is crawling, and his tail swishing. Without ever glancing into a mirror, he know his eyes have purple; his Panther is thrumming with zeal as the prospect of conflict looms and grows closer, and he's just barely maintaining restraint. He's shared a fair number of unpleasant experiences with Lumka, and his Panther recognizes that, wants to act on what T'Challa's never allowed himself to truly feel.

T'Challa stares down at her. "Let her speak."  
Ramonda glances between the two, her hand still tightly gripping Lumka's arm, before she acquiesces. But even so, she remains where she is, her body half-covering Lumka's.

"My daughter, Neliswa. She was newly appointed to your Dora." Lumka's hand trembles at her side, and her eyes turn red with unshed tears. "She'd been so excited, so honored to have joined the ranks. It doesn't make any sense for her to have died just two weeks after being admitted." Her hand spasms and seeks him out, only to pause just inches from him. She brings it to her chest and looks away, her voice bitter and broken as she spits out her next words. "And then to not only have her and her sisters' deaths be ignored by the very man they'd sworn to serve but to have her killer's death be mourned by that same man?" Swiping a hand over her eyes, she sniffles, bites her lips, and forces herself to breathe. "I've heard of kingdoms falling. I guess this is how that begins."  
"Lumka, that's enough." Ramonda wraps an arm around her, then guides her past T'Challa. She turns to give him one last look, but T'Challa's preoccupied by staring at where Lumka had stood, taking in her words like a tart cough syrup.

"I like this one", Erik says, watching as the two women disappear down the hall. "Bitter and straight-to-the-point. Not like the rest of you." He smirks and taps a finger against T'Challa's nose, giggling at the startled reaction he receives in return. "Damn", he marvels. "You know, you've got a real knack for royally pissing people off. No pun intended."

"Shut up." T'Challa's eyes follow his mother and Lumka as they turn a corner. When they've disappeared from his sight, the pressure resting upon his chest alleviates, and breathing ceases to be a struggle. "She's grieving", he murmurs; he turns to look at Erik. "She isn't thinking rationally."

"'Course she isn't, you got her only child killed. What's she supposed to do, smile and give you a gold star?" His voice takes on a serrated, and he draws closer, clenching his fingers around T'Challa's arms in a vice-like grip. His eyes flash golden, and his lips peel back into a deranged grin. "Cuz. You've got potential."  
"Get off." T'Challa rips himself from his grip, then turns and barges into the Council's room, Erik following in tow. The table is empty, the other Elders having long since left. There rests a single sheet of paper where T'Challa usually sits, and it's notes Ramonda's taken of the meeting. He should probably read it, should probably be drafting a written apology for his absence. But his body isn't listening, and his feet are guiding him to the bay window overlooking the kingdom sitting behind the Palace.

He knows this window. Arguably, he knows it better than any other place in the Palace, in the whole he was a child, his father would bring him here, sit him on his lap, and point out the different tribes and different monuments. And T'Challa would press his tiny fingers against the glass and tell T'Chaka where he and his friends had run off to during the day. And he'd smile, eagerly awaiting the day when he'd cover every inch of Wakanda because how else would he know how to run the kingdom?

That day came long ago, and Wakanda is now his to care for. In the few months that it's been under his control, sentiment for the royal family has turned largely unpleasant, and the world's opinion for the country itself isn't faring much better.

"Maybe this is how it all falls apart", T'Challa says, pressing a palm against the cool glass.

"Oh." Erik tosses an arm around his shoulders and smiles. "You can't break what's already been thoroughly damaged." He rests his head against T'Challa's shoulders and closes his eyes. "You were raised on lies and deception and murder. It's only natural that you'd pick up where your father left off."

"My father was a...good man. He just made poor choices."  
"And he never tried to right 'em." The skin where his head is resting burns hot, and T'Challa bites down a cry. Tears leap to his eyes; his hands are trembling, his heart is pounding like mad, and his ears are ringing.

Who was T'Chaka? A man that cared for his people and for his family? If that were true, why would he kill his brother and leave his nephew to rot and fester in ruin? Why would he keep the circumstances of N'Jobu's death a secret and Erik's existence unknown? Why, after hearing and seeing the state of the world's African population, would he remain isolationist, while simultaneously projecting the image of wanting to do the opposite? And to criticize his fellow Avengers for spilling innocent blood after he had abandoned his own to remain outside of the world's conflict? Why?

Who was he? And who is T'Challa?

"I'm sorry", he chokes, and he turns to look at Erik. "I'm sorry, Erik."

Erik nods, then evaporates into a puff of black smoke. "'Sorry' ain't good enough for the dead."

It's just T'Challa standing in that room, struggling to maintain his composure as the clutches of panic threaten to pull him under. It's hot, and his shirt is like a straight-jacket. He brings his hands to his chest, claws at the ready to tear the fabric to shreds, only to pause as a figure in his peripheral comes into focus.

T'Challa whips his head around, freezing when he finds James standing across the hall, staring into the Council room with wide eyes and parted lips. A silver hand stretches out, and James takes a step forward, only to stop when T'Challa suddenly turns and jumps out the bay window.

He doesn't leave his quarters for a week. But it's okay.

He's got the best company a guy could ask for.


	6. Golden Flames Licking the Mountainside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa takes a much needed break, but Erik is quite ready to go yet.

It occurs to him, between the decaying corpse whispering rancid everythings into his ear and the countless news nations bashing his family's leadership, that he should probably get out of the Palace. Not indefinitely, of course, but for a day or two; whatever time he can take to clear his head before the Avengers' Christmas party.

There are still whispers, and the Dora are still giving him those looks, and his family have not-so-discreetly taken to staying with him in shifts. Nakia's bold and direct, seizing any and all chances to tackle and cuddle with him; Ramonda's more reserved, but her hugs become more frequent and lengthy, and she doesn't smell as distressed when his Panther starts showing. Then there's Shuri's, who's more or less the same, aside from the rather aggressive praise she's been tossing at him. It's weird, but it's a welcomed respite from the constant podcast of negativity playing in his head. It's nice.

But even so, the Palace is driving him mad with cabin fever, so he sets out for the forests of Bashenga. The thick, lushful trees, the tranquil fauna, the calming roar of the waterfalls; there's just something about it, something otherworldly, that's always been capable of taming the burning wildfires within him.

Oddly enough, Erik's presence seems to lose temporality as they delve deeper into the Mountain; he'll be in the middle of a comment, usually some scathing remark, and his voice will just cut off, like he's been muted. T'Challa doesn't think much of it, partially because he's been having trouble focusing lately and partially because he's more concerned with reacquainting himself with the Mountain.

Each time he returns, it's like looking through the lenses of a past life. And since assuming his Habit, taking in the beauty* of the Mountain has become all more pacifying. The trees grow thicker, and the tension that had become like a second skin peels away like the petals of a budding flower. And it's been so long, since he's felt this calm, felt this much like himself.

Before he even knows what's happening, T'Challa's crouching to the ground, and a thick coat of fur explodes over his body. When his hands meet the ground, they've turned into paws, paws that take off down the mountainside with half a second's thought.

It's easier, being this way. There's no threat of petty, simple things like emotions; there is only the need to keep moving, to feel the moss-covered forest floor beneath his paws, to relish in the sensations of the winter winds blowing through his fur. In this land and in this form, he is apex, and he is king. Nothing can hurt him.

Nothing.

As he's approaching a clearing in the trees, a pile of rocks dislodges from the nearby cliff and threatens to crush him. T'Challa leaps out of the way just in time, rolling and rolling until he eventually regains his stance. He crawls to his feet, bears his teeth, and looks to the cliff. Standing at the ledge, there sits a Leopard, staring down at T'Challa with a jeering smile. It rises to stand, then springs into a nearby tree, clattering through the leaves and branches until it meets the ground. As it rushes towards him, golden eyes glinting in the morning sun rays, T'Challa whimpers, turning on his heels as he storms through the labyrinth of green.

Erik's laugh, grated and splintered, snakes through the trees and wraps around T'Challa. His Leopard cuts him off and sends him tumbling, snarling as it stands above his cowering figure. A yellow paw settles before his face, and the Leopard crouches until their eyes are at the same level. Its tongue glides over his teeth, and its eyes glint with the charisma of growing empire. The paw presses against T'Challa's throat, and the Leopard draws closer, pressing its mouth against T'Challa's ear.

It doesn't say anything, doesn't even grunt; it just stands there, almost purring, as it watches the Panther struggle for air.

Erik's voice sounds once more, prompting a flinch and a whine from T'Challa. He doesn't materialize, far too pleased to allow his Leopard instill the terror of a millennia's lifetime into T'Challa. "I'm sorry", Erik says. He sounds giddy. "Was I interrupting something?"

T'Challa chokes and kicks the Leopard off, running until he can duck beneath a thorny shrub and dash through a stream. The Leopard leaps over the bush and follows after him, kicking up water in his mad pursuit. T'Challa merely pushes on; he stubs his paw on a jagged piece of rock, but he keeps moving until the Leopard surge forward and snaps its jaws around his neck. Before it can deliver the lethal bite, Erik materializes beside them, his expression lax with boredom.

"All right, buddy. That's enough", he calls out, and the Leopard stills. With a whistle, it retracts itself from T'Challa's neck and returns to its owner's side. Erik digs his fingers into its fur and smiles, then turns to smirk at T'Challa. "What do you say", he asks his Leopard. "Look like he's had enough?"  
The Leopard yips, and T'Challa rolls onto his side, curling into a ball until the bitter words and sharp barks fade away. Minutes, hours perhaps, pass, and he remains as he is, comforted only by the natural sounds of the forest. Every so often, he'll hear some rustling or another, and his ears will perk up, his eyes flashing open as he pants and waits for Erik and his Leopard to return. They never do, but he can't find it in himself to move.

He's still in that position, fetal and paralyzed, when a pair of feet begin trekking towards him. The person pauses upon seeing him, then, seemingly determining him to be harmless, begins to approach, each step placed with caution. Soon enough, the feet are directly behind him, and a hand is rubbing soothing circles into his back. The person's shushing him, speaking reassuring words as the whimpers and shakes return. The fingers grow bolder, and arms wrap around T'Challa, pulling him into the person's chest.

It only takes a second, only takes a slight craning of the neck, for T'Challa to catch sight of the person's face and place is as James's.

"You're, uh, you're okay", he's saying; he scratches his fingers against the back of T'Challa's head, and the whimper clawing through his chest comes to an abrupt halt. "Just, uh, just keep on breathing."

T'Challa turns his head and blinks up at him. James bites his lip, then watches as T'Challa removes himself from his lap and shakily rises to his feet. Holding his hands out as a sign of peace, he follows his example and stands as well.

James shuffles his feet; his eyes dart to the wall of rock a few yards away, then back to T'Challa. T'Challa, taking note of the action, jogs over to the wall. Anxiety arises from James, and he follows T'Challa, sputtering as he manages a slow pace behind him.

T'Challa crawls between a crevice in the rock and is amazed to find a farm resting on the other end of the wall. He glances up at James and cocks his head to the side.

In response, James just sighs and brushes past him, tightening his grip on the basket underneath his arm. "Poke around long enough", he murmurs as he descends the trail to his cottage. "And you can find a shortcut anywhere."  
T'Challa snorts and truts down the trail, pausing only to allow James the second to push open the bamboo door before he rushes inside. In one of the back rooms, there's an orchestra of bleating and hooves slamming against the dirt. T'Challa growls, licks his chops, and starts for the rooms. He's barely taken a step, though, when James has stepped in front of him, his eyes wide and nervous.

"Okay, so, uh." He fidgets on the spot, his hands fumbling in front of him, and shakes his head. "All right, not sure if you can understand this but whatever: if my goats find out you're here, they're gonna flip; you think you can, I dunno, not eat them?"

T'Challa snarls, and his tail wags behind him.  
James glares and places his hands on his hips. "No. Look, can you just hold on for a minute?" He sighs, then turns and disappears down the hall. "I might have some steak in the icebox."

While he's gone, T'Challa huffs and seats himself on the bed of leaves and moss strewn together in the center of the room; rolling onto his side, he mewls and allows his eyes to close, pushing away thoughts of gold and black spots as a hot and decaying presence scratches the edge of his consciousness. The cottage is small and simple. Nothing like the Palace; the Palace, which, though is houses his family, is often too quiet and spacious for his comfort. There was always an accompanying sense of malaise, even with everything within reach and aptly organized.

This cottage is...a bit more cramped than T'Challa's used to, but it's kind of nice. There are clothes and bowls littered about, and the air smells faintly of animal, for lack of a better word. But it's all also very cozy, very homey.

T'Challa blinks, stretches, and rolls off the makeshift bed. His bones pop and crackle, and he digs his nails into the floorboards, groaning as his fur recedes and his body realigns itself. Once he's human again, he falls to the floor, a panting, sweaty mess, as he presses a hand to his chest and draws comfort in the fact that, yes, that is, in fact, a hand.

"All right", James mutters, dropping his now empty basket to the ground. He brushes his hands against his shirt and shakes out his hair. "That should keep 'em distracted for a while. Now...hey." Upon seeing T'Challa's struggling figure, he makes to break across the room, only to pause, blush, and look away as he realizes he's naked. "I, uh, um, do you need a minute or-"

"No", T'Challa whines, his forehead damp with sweat. He looks up at him through glazed eyes and inhales shakily. "Stay. Please."

James bites his bottom lip, darting his eyes to the back rooms, before cautiously lowering to the floor beside T'Challa. His hand reaches out as if to touch him, but he withdraws it at the last moment, favoring instead to rest it against his own thigh. He keeps his eyes on the dirt floor as he snatches the quilt off his cot and passes it to T'Challa. T'Challa tosses the cloth around his shoulders, shudders, and pulls his knees into his chest.

"Do you, uh, need anything", James asks, finally looking up at him. "Should I be calling anyone?"  
"No, no, I don't want anyone to..." T'Challa trails off and swipes a palm over his sweaty forehead. "I'd like a drink, please."

"Right. Right, yeah. Just, uh, give me a sec." James stands, then walks across the room to the icebox sitting in the corner. He squats, and T'Challa growls, blushing as a soft chuckle bounces around his skull. He swats a hand beside his ear, shakes his head, and watches as James returns with a mug of something brown and sweet-smelling. "Here", he says, passing the drink to T'Challa. "I'm outta water. Was gonna make a run later but." James smirks and shrugs. "Kinda got distracted."

A tired but genuine smile grazing his lips, T'Challa huffs and wraps his hands firmly around his mug. "That's putting it lightly", he murmurs; he lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip, humming as the taste calms some of the queasiness in his stomach. "Mm." He licks his lips and blinks. "What is this?"

"Uh, honestly?" James gulps down his own drink and chuckles bashfully. "I don't know. It's not poisonous, though."  
"Always a plus."  
James rolls his eyes. "The beans I used reminded me of cocoa", he continues; when he lowers his cup, there's a trail of brown settled over his lip. Something in T'Challa's chest trembles, and his lips twitch. He takes another sip, amused as James carries on with a smile of his own. "Shuri sends me things sometimes; this week, it was Atmet, so I mixed that with the cocoa. And I had some mint leaves lying around, so that's in there, too."

"Hm. Interesting blend." Shakily placing his mug on the ground beside him, T'Challa belches, covers his hand with his mouth, and winces in embarrassment. "Sorry."  
James shakes his head, smiling. "It's fine." He downs the rest of his drink, then places his cup within the space of his crossed legs. "Um. T'Challa?"

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

Sharp, jagged nails dig into his back. He grits his teeth, pressing his own claws into the skin of his legs, and looks away. "I'm fine. I haven't changed in a while. My body just needs some time to adjust."

James scratches the scruff running down his face. "I wasn't talking about that." He looks down at his empty cup, swirls around the remaining bits of cocoa, then looks back up at T'Challa. "Last week-"  
"Last week was nothing."  
"It didn't look like nothing." His words are resolute, determined, steadfast. But also soft, compassionate, benevolent.

T'Challa scowls. He stands, his legs wobbly, and starts for the door, placing his hand against the walls for leverage. James follows and moves to stand between him and the door.

T'Challa could easily push him aside and be on his way. With James's guard down the way it is, T'Challa could kill him with just the thought of fangs and black fur and hunger. James is a formidable opponent, but he is not invincible.

James knows this.

T'Challa knows this.

Neither moves.

"I know what it's like", James eventually says. "To have something in your head, something scary, that you don't want. I know how hard it is to deal with that when people need you cause the world's going crazy around you. And." His fingers go to what was once his arm; they rest there, and something flickers behind his eyes. He stares at the ground for a moment before looking back up T'Challa. "And I know how easy it is to drown in all the bad shit. Especially when you're dealing with it on your own."  
Erik materializes on James's cot and rolls his eyes. "Guess it takes crazy to know crazy", he quips, snatching hold of T'Challa's mug.

T'Challa snarls, shakes his head, and bites out, "I'm not crazy."

"I know you're not", James says, and his eyes furrow at the panic filling T'Challa's own. "T'Challa?

Are you listening to me?"

Erik tosses his mug at the back of his head, and a Leopard's roar rattles the foundation of the cottage. Erik's face, wan and green with weeks of decay, morphs into a grotesque mask of something feral and mad. "T'Challa? Why won't you listen to me?"

T'Challa presses his palms against his ears and snaps his eyes shut. "Shut up."

Feet shuffle against the dirt, and, suddenly, James's hands are on his shoulders. Their presence is light, lighter than a feather, so as not to startle him, but there enough for him to seek comfort. T'Challa leans into them, reaching up to clasp his hands around his wrists. James is saying something, but Erik's talking too loud, and his ears are ringing again, and he really just wants to sleep.

"You know what?" Erik slashes a claw against T'Challa's face, humming at the trail of blood he coaxes from the cut. "Sleep actually sounds like a good idea." The claw trails down to circle around his chest. "You should sleep now, T."

"T'Challa!"

"I went to sleep", Erik murmurs, and his eyes are foggy, like he's in some other place, at some other time. "You helped me, of course, but I went. Thought about it before then, obviously, but only really wanted to after I met you. Wasn't even scary, actually kinda nice. Could be nice for you."

"T'Challa!" A frantic hand patters against his cheek, but he keeps his eyes closed.

Erik extends the rest of his claws and drags them down his chest. T'Challa screams. "Mm. Just like that", Erik soothes, biting the shell of his ear.

The hand returns, no longer soft and comforting, to slap across the side of his face. His eyes fly open, and he hands move on their own accord, taking James's by his arm to flip him onto his back. James lies still, watching as T'Challa's fangs descend, and his body drapes over his. He wraps his hands around his wrists and pins James to the floor, a roar threatening to rip through his chest. There are waves of fear and panic and anger pulsing from James; his pupils are dilating, and his fingers are twitching, yearning to react. But James remains still, taking deep, gulping breaths, as he watches T'Challa struggle above him.

"Well, I'll be damned", Erik offers cheekily, staring at the two in amusement. "You two work quick, don't you?"

T'Challa jerks his head to hiss at him.

Erik smirks, dragging his tongue over the rim of T'Challa's cup. "Careful, cuz. You wouldn't wanna hurt your pet, now, would you?"

"T'Challa." James follows his line of sight, gulps, and tries to pull back his wrists. T'Challa growls, but he keeps his eyes on Erik. "T'Challa. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real."  
"Ouch." Erik places his free hand against his chest and pouts. "That really hurt my feelings."

"Your head's fucking with you. Hey. T'Challa!" T'Challa snaps his head back to him and narrows his eyes. James glares back and moves his wrists once more, stopping only when T'Challa abruptly relinquishes his grip on them. James crawls to his feet and moves until he's standiung in front of Erik. "Whatever this is, it can't hurt you. You hear me? T'Challa?" He reaches out and squeezes his shoulders. "You're okay. Nothing's gonna hurt you."

Erik huffs and hops around James. T'Challa's ears lower to press against his head, and he bears his fangs, pushing James behind him. In response, James grabs him by his arm and leads him into the back room, ignoring the panicked and annoyed bleats this draws from his goats. He shoves T'Challa to the back, where the young are resting, and sits so that he's just inches from his face, blocking out the rest of the room.

"T'Challa", he asks, still holding his shoulders. "Come on, man, talk to me. Say something." He gives him a gentle shake, sighing in relief when T'Challa briefly lifts his eyes. His eyes are purple. "Is it still here?"

T'Challa extends his neck to check the room. "No. He's gone now."

James raises his eyebrows. Minutes pass. Once he's certain that T'Challa's calm, he pulls away, then moves to sit against the wall beside T'Challa. Before them, most of the goats have crowded into the opposite corner, yelping and crying as they tumble around and over one another. A few of the kids don't seem to understand the threat, though; one of them, the youngest doeling, stumbles across the room to sit between T'Challa and James, bleating weakly before rolling onto her side and falling asleep.

T'Challa places a hand over the kid, dragging his fingers along her ears. "It's been like this since I first took on the mantle", he murmurs as he lifts the kid into his lap. One of the older goats has made its way across the room, digging its hooves into the earth as it pauses before him. James and allows it to crawl into his lap; it settles, though it never takes its eyes off its child. "I know they must know what I am, but I wish they didn't. It was easier when they didn't."

"They just don't know you", James replies softly; he presses a kiss to his goat's head, then passes it to T'Challa, letting go only when the animal begins to kick its legs. "Does anyone else know?"

"No." James looks up from the two goats. "I can't keep the kingdom running as it is. If word of this gets out, I don't think we could come back from that."

"But-"

"We couldn't James." He clenches his hand into a fist and huffs. "I couldn't."

After that, there's nothing left to be said. The rest of the goats come to surround them, and they don't mention it again. James takes to tending to his flock, and T'Challa watches, content to just be here until he has to leave.

T'Challa glances down at himself; he takes in the sight of his quilt, sucks in his lower lip, and closes his eyes. "James?"

"Yeah?"

He scratches the back of his head. "Can you lend me some clothes?"


	7. Let It Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party Time!

The last thing he wants to do is attend a party.

The noise, the awkward handshakes, the flailing as he struggles to navigate a three-sided conversation (Bast forbid if there are inside jokes), they're all key to why T'Challa's never been too keen on parties. And that was before a corpse began gnawing on his sanity. As it stands, T'Challa just wants to crawl out of his suit and disappear for a little while.

But he can't. He has to go. He has to because, with his brain falling apart, he can't rule Wakanda, and he can't help anyone, and he can't be there for anyone; can't do much of anything. Not really; just the act of speaking to someone either sends him into a bundle of nerves or a gritty mood, and neither of them lead for pleasant interactions. Everything's gone to shit, and it feels like his reign has ended before he's even had the chance to make sense of things. He can't help himself, and he can't help his kingdom.

But he can mingle with his new teammates.

"It's just for a few hours", Shuri assures him through their kimoyo beads. "You'll be home in a blink, and, in a few days, you'll have forgotten all about it."

"Hopefully", T'Challa sighs, switching the jet to autopilot. He tugs his feet underneath his seat and rolls his head to the side; they're due for the Tower in five, maybe ten minutes. There's nothing but farmland for miles and miles around them, but the jet's fast enough to clear it all and get them there a few minutes early. He looks away from the window, then back to Shuri, a teasing smirk gracing his lips. "I'm surprised you didn't want to come along. This could have been your chance to learn about that Spider Boy."  
Shuri rolls her eyes. "Spider-Man. And I'm learning enough about that talking to him on my own. I don't need some dinner with stuffy suits to get anything out of him. Besides, I'm working on a new project, and I really can't be away from it."

T'Challa raises an eyebrow. "Project?"

She shakes her head and swats a hand at him, her image wavering as the hand passes over her beads. "It's nothing to worry about, I've got it under control."

He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a sneeze emerges from behind him and steals his attention. His shoulders taut, T'Challa darts his eyes to the mirror before him, watching as James swipes a finger underneath his nose and reaches for a tissue in his breast pocket. T'Challa stares, eyes unblinking and fingers tingling, following each moment the elder man makes.

At his wrist, Shuri watches, her head cocked in confusion, before realization dawns on her face. "Ah", she says. Her smile softens, and she leans forward, lowering her voice as she whispers, "Don't worry."

T'Challa frowns, turns back to her, and gives her a head tilt of his own.

Shuri just keeps smiling; she reaches out for the bowl of chocolate in front of her and unwraps a piece. "You're wearing your best suit", she says, carefully inspecting the candy. "He's definitely gonna notice you." Before he can refute this, a red wave trembles through her image, and a jingle pierces the air. Shuri groans. She stands, dumping the chocolates into her purse, and inches her hand to her kimoyo beads. "My class is starting; I'll see you when you get back."

T'Challa nods and says, "See you soon, little sister" before her image retreats into his beads. He gives them one last, fond look, then turns his attention to the quickly approaching Tower, watching as the Jet guides itself with ease onto Stark's landing bay*.

James, clad in a simple pair of jeans and black t-shirt, rises from his seat at the same time as T'Challa. He pauses, waiting as T'Challa powers down the Jet, then takes a step back as T'Challa turns to face him.

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and clears his throat.

T'Challa fumbles with the buttons of his shirt sleeve.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" T'Challa looks up from his sleeve, and James blushes. "I mean, being around people when you're not all the way yourself...that's...hard...and kind of impossible." James frowns and drops his hand on his shoulder, gliding his fingers over the space where metal meets flesh. "You don't-you don't have to do this if you're not ready. You don't have to be a part of the team if you're not ready."

The door to the Jet pulls open, and sunlight streaks upon them. Stark's approaching them, an amicable smile settled over his face as he places one foot in front of the other. James stiffens but smears half a smile across his own face.

"I'll be fine", T'Challa murmurs to him. "I have to be." Then, sparing him another look, he looks down to James's hand. T'Challa presses the back of his hand against James's, then turns back to Stark. In the corner of his eyes, he sees James's eyes widen, and, maybe it's just him, but, for a second, it feels like James has returned the gesture.

"Heya, fellas", Stark greets with a slight nod. He makes a waving motion with his hand, and the two follow, taking several turns and jogging up a few flights of stairs until they come unto a lounge room.

Most of the Avengers are already here, huddled up amongst their respective groups. As they approach the bar, Stark snatches two glasses of wine off the countertop and passes them to T'Challa and James. He's about to say something, his eyes half-lidded and witty, but before he can, his earpiece flashes blue and whirs as his AI informs him of the pending arrival of their latest guest.

"All right", Stark says, pulsing out sudden waves of anxiety. "Thor just broke the atmosphere, and I need to make sure he doesn't, you know, break anything else. You guys gonna be good on your own?"  
"Uh-"  
He turns and leaves without an answer, bidding everyone a temporary goodbye before rushing towards the window. The glass shifts and folds, and, within seconds, he's enveloped by his suit and flying over Manhattan.

James raises his glass to his lips. His eyes dart over the Avengers lounging around the loft. Just as the scent of Stark's nerves have begun to fade, James's propel full force, knocking T'Challa off balance.

"Hm." Erik pours himself a glass of wine and downs it in one gulp. "You know, sniffing people is no way to make friends", he tells T'Challa.

T'Challa taps his eager claws against the bowl of his own glass.

Erik just rolls his eyes; he takes T'Challa's glass from him, then saunters off, calling out, "Imma go mingle. Have fun!"

T'Challa briefly stares down at his before shoving his hands into his pockets and turning to James, who's eyeing him with knowing eyes.

James blushes upon being caught. Brushing a hand over his red-glowing cheeks, he looks up at him and raises his eyebrows. "Is it him?"  
"It's nothing I can't handle", T'Challa murmurs. Even so, he reaches out to grip James by the forearm. His hand hovers mid-air, though, and he takes it back, clenching it to his chest. James stares at him, his eyes full of something familiar yet alien, and T'Challa stares back, his own eyes fearful yet hopeful.

Nothing comes of the moment, though, because, seconds later, there's a talking raccoon bouncing over to them.

"Hey!", Rocket shouts as he stumbles between them. "What's with the eyes?"

From the other side of the room, Groot, clad in a Regular Show t-shirt, looks away from Mantis and cocks his head to the side. T'Challa waves a hand, and Groot turns back to Mantis as she reaches into a pouch for something that looks like a jellyfish.

T'Challa glances back down at Rocket, who's wearing a sweater with an Evergreen plastered across the front. T'Challa presses his fingers into his temple and sighs. "Hello, Rocket. Nice to see you again."

"Really?" He leans against James's legs and chortles. "Cause last I saw you, you couldn't stop scowling at me."  
"The last time I saw you, you were attempting to break into my Palace."

Rocket shrugs. "I thought you needed rescuing." He then looks up at James and beams. "Bucky! Hey, man, how you doing?"

"I don't like you", James deadpans, though there's a hint of a smirk teasing his lips.

"You guys are no fun", he huffs, staring at his empty glass with disdain.

"Uh huh." T'Challa rolls his eyes. "Was there something you wanted?"

"What? Oh. Uh. Well, you, Bucky, the, uh, Widow Lady wants to talk to you." Rocket covers his mouth with his hand, then whispers, not-so-quietly, "She says it's super urgent and super important."

James looks away to scan the room. When he locates her, she's draped across Stark's piano, watching in amusement as Wilson attempts to teach a flustered Rogers "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star". There are three glasses besides her, and one of Stark's robots is approaching her with a platter of several more.

"Yeah", James drawls. "Looks real important." He looks back from the trio to T'Challa, searching his expression for something.

Whatever T'Challa's feeling, because now definitely isn't the time to figure out what exactly this is, he pushes it down and wipes it clear from his face. He smiles and nods, clenching his hand around the cup that's reappeared in his hand. "Go on", he says lightly. "I'll be fine."

Rocket grunts, grabbing hold of James's hand, and steers him away from T'Challa. As he's going, James looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide and worried until Rocket shoves him against the piano.

T'Challa sighs and takes a seat at the bar. Erik's returned as well, sitting cross-legged as he tosses bottles of Chardonnay and Sherry across the room. No one notices because, well, it's not real, but T'Challa does, and it takes a mountain of effort to refrain from flinching as glass meets polished, wooden floorboards.

As he's sitting there, awaiting the inevitable verbal attack from Erik, someone takes a seat beside him and pours themselves a drink. T'Challa looks up, and his fingers, which he hadn't even noticed had curled into fists, turn lax against his thighs.

Sitting at his side is Colonel Rhodes.

It's weird, T'Challa can't help but think, seeing him dressed in civilian clothes. Before, he'd always seen him in sharp tuxedos or silver suits. Now, it's just brown slacks and a rather awful Christmas sweater. He must catch him looking because the relaxed expression upon his face turns sheepish. He chuckles and takes a sip of his wine.

"I lost a bet", he says before stretching out a hand. "I'm Rhodey. Don't think we've, uh, properly met."

T'Challa accepts the hand and pretends he doesn't notice Erik making devilish faces in the mirrors surrounding the bar. "T'Challa. Nice to meet you."

"Mm." He tips his glass to him. "Not big on parties?"  
"Not particularly. But this one seems…" He takes in the sight of Wanda and Pietro squealing as Groot grows two oak trees beneath their feet and sends them twirling through the air. "Pleasant."

"Yeah", Rhodes snorts. "They're not as nefarious as the tabloids would make you think. Most of the time, we just bring snacks and movies and crash in front of the TV for a few hours." He picks up the bottle of wine and tilts it T'Challa's way. T'Challa just shakes his head; his stomach is roiling at just the thought of drinking, and he'd rather not make a spectacle of himself at his introduction to the Avengers.

"Yeah, well." Erik pops up behind the bar, sporting a curly mustache and a pair of suspenders. He shakes a can of club soda between his hands, then squirts it into a mug. "Technically speaking, you've already made your introduction. I don't think they were very impressed." Once the drink begins spilling over the mug's sides, he smiles, caps off the can, and pushes the mug to T'Challa.

T'Challa glares and watches as the mug tips over and spills club soda all over the bar.

"Hey."

He looks up from the counter and over to Rhodes. "Yeah?"  
Rhodes just keeps looking at him. "You feeling all right? You're looking a little sick."

"I'm fine", T'Challa deflects. "Must be the air travel." Rhodes looks like he's about to say something else, something probing, so T'Challa stands, excuses himself, and leaves in search of a bathroom. James looks up from where he's seated at his piano and frowns, relaxing only when T'Challa gives him a reassuring smile.

As he turns a corner, Erik materializes in the middle of the hall, arms folded his chest and a deep-suited scowl settled across his face. "I was having fun in there", he says with a head jerk back to the lounge.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't." T'Challa brushes past him, disappearing into the nearest bathroom. He presses his back against the wall, comforted by the coolness seeping from the tiles, and closes his eyes. "All right", he mutters to himself. "It's just for a few hours. It'll be over before you know it."

"Right", Erik snickers as he steps through the door. "Because that always works, doesn't it?"  
T'Challa propels himself off the wall and walks to the sink. He twists the dials, and a torrent of water gushes from the sinks, splattering water everywhere. He shoves his hands underneath the stream, gathers a puddle of water within his palms, then presses his face into the water. Barely suppressing the shaky breath gathering in his chest, T'Challa closes his eyes and hovers, pliant and still as some of the claminess afflicting him diminishes.

Once he's certain he's gathered himself, he opens his hands and allows the water to fall back to into the sink. He stands, turns off the water, and looks to Erik.

"What do you want from me?"  
He raises an eyebrow.

"For weeks", T'Challa grits out. "You've been taunting me, tormenting me. And I can't figure out why."  
"Really?" He disappears, only to reappear, seconds later, beside him. T'Challa startles, and Erik reaches out to steady him, but the gesture is anything but calming. He presses his fingers against T'Challa's lips and hums, pleased at the look of despair and exhaustion he recieves in return. "With all the smarts up here", Erik muses, guiding his fingers to rap them against T'Challa's forehead. "I'd've thought you'd figured it out by now."

"Well, I haven't." Purple disperses within his irises, and fangs creep past his lips. "Why are you doing this?"

Erik tilts his head and smiles. He lowers his hands to T'Challa hips and pulls him close, close so that there's hardly any space between them. Before he can get too close, though, he turns him around so that they both face the mirror and stares at their respective reflections with smoldering eyes. Erik tucks his chin into the crook of T'Challa's neck and coos. "Look", he orders. "Look at yourself. You know what you look like? You look like a ghost that just doesn't know when to look go." His hands scale T'Challa's body until they settle upon his throat, his fingers trailing over the taut skin there. "You don't sleep; you don't eat; you don't talk to anyone, and, when you do, you're not all the way there because you're wondering if it's possible to kill someone twice and if the second time feels just as good."

"That's not true." T'Challa watches as the hands wrap around his chest; he inhales. If they were a normal pair, you'd think they were a loving couple sharing a loving embrace. You wouldn't think one of them was dead and decomposing, crushing the other in his unbearably strong grip and suffocating the other with the fumes oozing from his pores.

You wouldn't think either, if given the chance, would sink a knife into the other's larynx.

"Come on, T", Erik chuckles. "Let's quit pussyfooting the subject, okay? You killed me." He presses a kiss underneath T'Challa's chin and smiles. "And it felt good, didn't it?"

It did feel good, but that's not the point. That never was the point. The point was that Erik was a threat, a threat adamant against reason, and he had to go. And if T'Challa possibly derived some sense of pleasure from that…

"Fuck."  
"You're no better than the assholes you claim to protect your people from", Erik notes, detaching himself from T'Challa. "The sooner you accept that, the easier it'll be to let go."

And with that, T'Challa finds himself alone, staring into the mirror and not recognizing the man staring back at him.

Had he always been so broken?


	8. Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa takes a field trip.

The apartment was condemned long ago.

Before that, it'd been abandoned for well over a decade, gathering dust and and an increasingly fiendish atmosphere. All that remains now is an empty lot, littered with discarded bags of fast food, cigarette butts, and shattered bottles of beer. It's almost impossible to imagine what this place might've looked like before, what it might've been if someone still cared to keep it inhabitable.

But that was long ago. And T'Challa figures it's been quite some time since this place has had someone to care for it.

When he arrives, there's a cluster of children in the lot, playing with toy guns and speaking in accents of the Wild, Wild West.

It strikes T'Challa as an odd sight; children should never be exposed to anything of a violent nature, and yet here they are, engaging in mock warfare with their friends with a seeming joy. He doesn't understand the appeal, but if he thinks deeply enough, he can scrounge up the memory of he and Shuri playing Swordsman throughout the halls of the Palace as children. Looking back, it was all a bit morbid, but there's no denying that he, too, saw a sport in the devils of war.

Ahead of him, one of the girls leaps onto a wobbly crate and points her gun at several members of her group, making SciFi noises and squealing in delight when they tumble to the ground with a dramatic flair. She's turned to jump off the crate when she catches sight of T'Challa watching them. She tucks her gun into the back of her pants and glares.

"What the hell are you looking at", she calls out, and the other children turn to face him. Several of them reach for their pockets.

T'Challa shows them his palms and begins to step back. "Nothing", he calls back to her. "I was just lost."  
The girl narrows her eyes. Another one of the girls tugs her down from the crate and pushes her behind her. The children crowd into a bunch, each clenching their hands around a knife or a rock or whatever's within sight.

"Leave us alone", the second girl, who appears to be the oldest, says. "And we'll leave you alone. Deal?" One of the boys looks up at her and begins to protest, ceasing when she shoots him a rather heated glare. "We don't want any trouble."  
T'Challa nods. "I wasn't looking for any. I just...I was hungry."  
"There's a Taco Bell the next block over", the girl replies. "You can't miss it."  
"Right. Thanks." T'Challa turns around, then jogs away. From the corner of his eye, he sees the group still standing firmly, relaxing only when he reaches the end of the street. By then, the youngest have resumed their play and picked their guns off the crackling pavement.

Sure enough, there's a Taco Bell, along with a McDonald's and a Burger King, sitting on the next street. He enters, orders a Coke and some Cinnamon Twists, and takes a seat at an empty booth.

This is Erik's neighborhood; Erik's home. With the state of the building, it's likely that he ate here once, that he sat at this very booth. T'Challa chews on a Twist and looks at the counter, where the cooks are busy preparing food and taking orders. He looks to the several patrons dining in with him. If he should ask, would anyone remember Erik? And if they did, which would they remember: the one that died attempting to dethrone him and spread weapons across the globe? Or would they know a rigid young man, struggling to survive the streets and put himself through school? Or would they speak of a younger man, a boy, who was often at his father's side, wide-eyed as he was whispered wondrous tales in a tongue they did not speak?

T'Challa lifts his cup from the table and drinks. His mouth burns, but he finds he doesn't really care.

What is he doing here?

"I was wondering that, too." Erik takes a bite of his taco, squeezing out a mess of gooey cheese and red sauce. He brushes the side of his thumb against his lip and reaches for T'Challa's Coke.

T'Challa wraps a firm hand around the plastic cup and tugs it close to him.

Erik rolls his eyes. He turns back to his taco, lifts it into the air, and lets it drip onto his face. When he looks back to T'Challa, the decaying skin between his eyes has melted away. "I mean, even before your old man gutted mine, he never came to visit. Not even a phone call or a letter, just nothing." He presses a finger into the loose skin and watches as it pulls away with a sick, slimy noise. His gaze remains upon the finger, transfixed, before it shifts back to across the table; if T'Challa didn't know this thing, this ghost, this charred shell of a man, he'd think those eyes were confused; hopeful even.

"I'm surprised you even held out this long", Erik eventually murmurs, turning back to his disaster of a taco. "I was willing to bet good money you'd drown yourself in a bathtub. But you're still here. And." He munches around a piece of shell and nods. "You came to my home. Of all the places you go to when your head's ready to tilt of its axis, you chose the home of the guy that's been tormenting you for weeks."

T'Challa drags a sip of Coke into his mouth, lets the explosion of sugar and cold dilute his senses until the frantic pounding of his heart fades into the background. He drinks again and finds himself falling deeper into Erik's eyes, searching, just like that day in the Throne Room, for the source of all that anger, all the hate emanating from this man.

And just like that day, T'Challa finds none. But now, now he knows what he knows, and he knows that even though N'Jadaka survived T'Chaka's attack on his father, the boy was dead long before he sought out the Wakandan Throne.

"I killed you", T'Challa begins, his forehead heavy with wrinkles as the words come to him. "And I did enjoy it, the way I've always enjoyed violence."  
Erik nods. His taco is gone, and the cheese marring his face has vanished. His face has resumed its original appearance, though the grey, sickly tint to it remains. His hands remain at his side and his expression open and empty as T'Challa struggles to voice his findings.

"It wasn't my Habit", he continues. "And it wasn't stress. It was just me. But that has nothing to do with you."  
Erik frowns; his skin grows darker, and his irises burn gold like an ancient sun trying to pulse out its last rays of heat. "Seeing how your sick fetish for hurting people got me killed, I don't think-"  
"I don't kill and I don't hurt people who aren't threatening others. I do wish things could have been different, but, with the way you were living, it was destined for you to be meet your death before your time."

Erik slams a fist against the table, and T'Challa's pleased to see his cup remain firmly seated. "I am dead", Erik seethes as he rises from his seat. "Because of you. And all our brothers and sisters, the ones that would have lived if I'd gotten to them, their blood'll be on your hands."

"I will assist however I can. But I will not weaponize anyone. The goal is to help, not to destroy." T'Challa starts to stand, only to be snatched by his throat and tossed through the window and into the street. He groans, struggling to his feet, and looks around him, surprised to see the dilapidated neighborhood gone. In its place, there is a field of static, buzzing first quietly, then increasingly loud as Erik steps into reality.

"You think of yourself as righteous", he chides, backhanding T'Challa. Before he can stumble back to rightness, Erik snatches him by his collar, pulls him up by his hair, and pries back T'Challa's head, bearing his teeth in rage. "You think you're something, somebody, that helps, that saves. But you're not. You are nothing." He shoves T'Challa away, then turns around and jumps back into the static.

When he returns, he's in his Jaguar form, taunting T'Challa as he stalks closer and closer. T'Challa rolls onto his side and transforms into his Panther, leaping out as Erik's way just seconds before he lands where he'd been sitting.

"Now me." Erik chuckles and sits back on his hind legs; his smirk is smug and heedy yet precarious, like it's uncertain of its stability. "I was noble. Grew up, bulked up, way before I was ready, and tried to give our people a fighting chance. 'Course, you put a stop to it before I could even get started but rest assured, cuz." He snarls and jumps to T'Challa. He swipes a paw against T'Challa's face, giggling when T'Challa wines and stumbles backwards. "This world will forever remember what, and who, I died for. Just like they'll remember you." Erik rolls his shoulders, snaps his teeth, and surges forward.

This time, the bite does come, but it's not Erik that delivers it.

T'Challa ducks and rolls away. While Erik's regaining his feet, T'Challa jumps forward and snaps one of his hind legs in his canines. Erik howls and kicks and bucks, but T'Challa maintains his hold, snapping and biting until he hears of a bone and the sound of a body meeting the floor. The buzzing around him dims, and Erik whimpers, a deafening, gut-wrenching sound amongst the sudden silence.

T'Challa crouches beside him and stares, his chest heaving. The room, this space, is growing darker and darker, just like the light within Erik's eyes.

Then again, it never really was there, was it? Not in a long while.

"You didn't die for them", T'Challa says softly, and all the fight goes out of Erik. He falls limp, ceasing in his struggles, and just lies there, staring up at his elder cousin with a nurtured fatigue. T'Challa crawls closer to him and places his head against his chest, listening for the stilling heartbeat. It's there, beneath the weathered screams and shouts of a boy lost to a battle that was not his choosing. Beneath the anguish and the hatred and the fear, there is a small, timid heartbeat, pounding with all the might it can gather because, well, Erik never did anything halfway, did he?

"You died for yourself", T'Challa continues, curling his body around Erik's. "For your own festering agenda."

Erik blinks. He smiles, and there is no bite, is no venom, within the gesture. He says nothing. Just sits there and, finally, dies, coiling into T'Challa in ways he'd previously been unable to.

They lie there, still and quiet, same and different, and the void continues to lose its light; a gold and black yin and yang, sitting amidst the static before they, too, are consumed by darkness.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eustress.

The ink is black and purple.  
Soft, smooth, and warm; if the location of the image had not been permanently ingrained in his memory, T’Challa would have thought it was a part of his skin. But even still, it is a part of him, and he doubts he’ll ever feel any other way.   
It’s a panther. His Panther. To the average, it’d look like any other, but T’Challa knows it, and he knows that it’s his, just like he knows his reflection in a cloudy pool of water.   
It’s springtime now. In a couple of days, he’ll reassume his duties and be sworn back onto the throne. He’s been preparing, but, then again, he’d been preparing for most of his life, and it hadn’t done him much good.   
T’Challa closes his eyes; he lets the balmy winds of Mount Bashenga to wash over him and lay claim to the nerves that have yet to lay to rest. He pulls back the sleeve of his shirt and presses a finger over his forearm.   
He’s fine. It’ll be fine. He couldn’t handle it the first time, but he’s been given a second chance. It’ll be okay.  
“Hey.”  
T’Challa looks up from his arm. Standing a few feet in front of him is James with a grey sack of what smells like oats and grains. T’Challa smiles and rises to his feet. “James”, he says on a sigh. “Hi.”  
James tosses the sack to the ground, then pauses, standing just a few feet away. He’s cut his beard. It was a nice beard, but T’Challa can’t say it isn’t nice see his face again.  
“Shuri said you’d be out here”, James eventually says, turning to look out at the Mountain stretching above them. “I didn’t think you came this far down.”  
“I usually don’t”, he admits with a shrug. “Guess I just wanted something different.” His arms folded over his chest, T’Challa shyly looks over at James and smiles.   
It takes a moment, but once it registers, James’s eyes widen, and his cheeks flush red. He smiles right on back. “Oh.”   
It’s been months since that day in Oakland. T’Challa and James, they’ve seen each other several times since then, but only in passing. After admitting his struggles to his family, T’Challa was “advised” a few months to himself, to finding out just how he wanted to approach things. Recovery. And recovery meant no stress, and, if the frantic beating of his heart was any indication, James was quite the stressful topic.   
But if there’s one thing T’Challa knows about stress, it’s that it’s not nearly as bad as its reputation makes it out to be. Too much of it could kill you, but just enough of it could bring you to something better than what was challenging you in the first place.   
“Are you better?” He’s closer now, close enough to take one of T’Challa’s hand in his own and brush a finger against it.   
T’Challa looks down at where James’s skin meets his own, then looks back up. Before the thought’s finished developing, T’Challa’s reaching out, wrapping a palm around the back of James’s neck, and pulling him into a kiss. In an instant, James is gasping and pulling T’Challa closer. T’Challa’s eyes flutter closed, and he hums; he presses his chest to James’s, then tangles a clump of his shirt into his fist. James pants into his mouth, then moves to push T’Challa up against the tree behind them. But his foot slips on a rock and steals him of his balance. Before they can reach the tree, the two trip over their feet and fall to the ground, their eyes flying back open upon impact.   
“Jesus fucking Christ”, James hisses as he stares back at his ankle.   
T’Challa blinks and follows his line of sight. “Is it twisted?”  
He huffs. “No. Just hurts.”  
Something in T’Challa’s chest tugs. He looks up at James and whines. Upon seeing the sound register with his ears, T’Challa feels a surge of heat overwhelm in; he gives him a sheepish look, but James just places a hand beside his head and draws closer.   
“I’ll be fine”, James says with a light smile. With that, he presses his forehead against T’Challa’s and places his free hand on the other side of him.   
T’Challa lets his hands settle on James’s hips and presses back against him. James lays his head in the crook of his neck and closes his eyes. T’Challa tucks his chin into his shoulder and is about to close his eyes when something on the Mountainside catches his attention.   
Something golden brown. Majestic.  
The Leopard’s resting on the cliff, its paw dangling over and its tail swooshing from side to side. Even from a distance, T’Challa can make out the big cat swiping a slow, tantalizing tongue over its lips. Its eyes dip down to James, then back up to T’Challa’s before it rises to its feet and turns around. Before it disappears into the thick brush of the Mountain, the Leopard looks over its shoulder, peels its teeth back into a ravenous snarl. Then it yips, springs into a jump, and vanishes into the tapestry of green.   
“T’Challa?” James looks down at him and cocks his head to the side. “Everything okay?”  
The space where the Leopard has been shivers, and beads of sweat pepper up and down T’Challa’s back. He lifts a hand and claims one of James’s, rolling them until they lay on their sides; he places his head against James’s and closes his eyes. “Yeah.” He snuggles his head into his neck and, to his own surprise, finds a light purr escaping from chest. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So, sorry for the late update. Things have been kind of shit, and motivation's been going up and down. This is officially the end of Polar, and I am currently working on my next project, a Frostiron slowburn so eyes and ears out for that in the coming weeks/however long it takes me to finish it. Big thanks to everyone who's taken a dread or dropped a comment, bookmark, kudos, the likes. Writing/editing this was pretty hard, and it really helps to see that people actually liked it. You guys are the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Ooh, so this one has been sitting up for months. Finally finished writing it, just gotta get down the epilogue and editing. Not so sure on updating schedule but expect once to twice a week.  
> This one's a bit all over the place. It's more introspection than actual plot. And given that I've spent a few months writing this, it's gonna be weird and a bit spotty. Like I said, kind of all over the place so just keep that in mind.  
> 


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